


Call Me Captain

by Fairleigh



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-07-28 11:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20063044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fairleigh/pseuds/Fairleigh
Summary: “Well, Mr. Solo, I’m Jack Sparrow,CaptainJack Sparrow. I’m a pirate, and I’m commandeering this here” — when he patted the navigational panel possessively, the plate covering fell off and hit the durasteel decking with a jarring, metallic clatter, making them both jump — “uh, fine vessel and its valuable cargo. You, uh, do have valuable cargo, don’t you?”





	Call Me Captain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kameiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kameiko/gifts).

Han groaned. Why was he awake? He didn’t want to be awake. An entire battalion of stormtroopers was marching in formation on the insides of his temples, and his mouth … his mouth tasted of … tasted of the rank, morning-after dredges of … of … of …

Corellian rum. Lots of it. Shit.

Han groaned again and cracked his eyes open. The light was as piercing as a vibroknife through the skull, and he had to force himself to keep his eyes open long enough for them to adjust and allow him to see what lay before him. Or, rather, _beside_ him in his double-wide sleeping berth on the Falcon.

And what was beside him at the moment appeared to be the head of a man, still sound asleep and snoring peacefully. The man in question was face down in the pillow, and his hair was a messy mass of brown, fuzzy-sausage-like locks. Hmm. Han lifted the covers and hazarded a peek underneath.

Shit. Shit. _Shit!_

Han groaned a third time. Now he remembered exactly what had happened yesterday and how he’d ended up in this incredibly … _compromising_ … position.

He prodded the shoulder, none too gently, belonging to the man beside him. “Hey, _Captain_, time to rise and shine!”

~*~*~

Even the Millennium Falcon got boarded sometimes, and Captain Han Solo was prepared.

Basically.

Usually it involved an Imperial blockade and a much, much bigger vessel. Occasionally it involved one of the galaxy’s many criminal syndicates or other assorted rogue elements, and the procedure — not to mention the end result — was much the same: the confiscation of any contraband, or any cargo, period, they could find. It was nice when the bad guys didn’t manage to find anything, but when they did Han had been in the business long enough to know not to mourn overmuch. Provided he and Chewie came out of it with their lives, he considered any outcome, whatever the outcome, a win.

He’d never been boarded while he was still docked and refueling at the spaceport, though. That was a first in his smuggling career.

“You’re being boarded! Nobody move, or I’ll shoot!”

The slurred, slightly punch-drunk voice making the threat annoyed Han more than it scared him, but he always took threats to shoot seriously, so he put his hands up high where they could be seen and rose slowly from his seat in the cockpit. Just as slowly, he turned around.

It was male and human, more or less, and garishly dressed, like a pirate on a cheesy pirate drama holovid. It was even wearing a weather-beaten, leather tricorn hat — Han had never seen one of those in real life before. He’d definitely seen the model of blaster in real life before that the man was waving about like he might hit something at random, however, and Han sincerely hoped the man actually knew how _not_ to use it by accident.

“Where’s the rest of ya?” the man asked.

Chewie had taken some time off to deal with Wookiee matters of some sort or another, so Han was alone. “It’s just me,” Han said.

“Hmph.” The man stroked his beard speculatively. His beard had beads woven into it, and his fingers dripped with jeweled rings. “And you are …?”

“Han Solo.”

“Well, Mr. Solo, I’m Jack Sparrow, _Captain_ Jack Sparrow. I’m a pirate, and I’m commandeering this here” — when he patted a navigational box possessively, the panel covering fell off and hit the durasteel decking with a jarring, metallic clatter, making them both jump — “uh, fine vessel and its valuable cargo. You, uh, you do have valuable cargo, don’t you?”

Han just rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you go see for yourself? The cargo hold’s that way,” he added, when it became clear that Sparrow had not the slightest clue where to look.

~*~*~

“Bantha poodoo? You’re hauling freeze-dried _bantha poodoo_?!”

“Sure,” Han said, shrugging as best he could with his hands up behind his head. “It’s used as a fuel source in a whole host of systems. There’s profit to be made … provided you can stand the smell.”

But the smell seemed to be getting to Sparrow. He was making faces at the odiferous cargo and weaving on his feet like he was drunk.

“Look, Sparrow — ”

“_Captain_ Jack Sparrow to you!”

Fine, _Captain _Jack Sparrow, my mistake. Look, Captain, can we get this over with?” Han continued, his patience fraying. “You’re a pirate. You boarded my ship. You’ve seen my cargo. Now what?”

“Um.” Sparrow was looking unaccountably shifty again.

“The cockpit’s back that way. What, do you need a co-pilot or something?”

“Um.” Sparrow didn’t answer. Instead, he backpedaled into the corridor, pinwheeling, arms and legs akimbo, and somehow — Han couldn’t fathom how — landed ass-first onto one of the hidden floor panels Han’d had installed on the Falcon especially for contraband and then, because Sparrow was a hell of a lot heavier than he looked, apparently, falling straight through and down into the compartment below.

A compartment which was completely empty, save for Han’s personal stash: a case of vintage Corellian rum.

~*~*~

He was a pirate, like he said, except not a _space _pirate. He’d never even been in a spaceship before today, and he certainly couldn’t pilot one by himself. He was in fact a _sailboat _captain, a local from the waters of this backwater stopover planet. And by the time Han had managed to disarm him, which he did by giving him two bottles of rum to hold at the same time, requiring Sparrow to trade his blaster for the temptingly full bottle Han proffered, he’d learned that Sparrow was really only a Captain in name only. He didn’t even have his sailboat anymore, not after his first mate mutinied.

Han almost felt bad for the guy. He knew something about betrayals by people he thought he could trust, after all. Maybe this Sparrow wasn’t such a bad sort. And he _was_ awfully handsome beneath that ridiculous getup of his …

Sparrow noticed him looking and didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he preened a bit and looked right back at Han. He seemed to like what he saw as well.

In any case, he and Han drank for hours, sharing more and more stories, becoming more and more maudlin, and getting more and more drunk, and Han didn’t remember anything after that until waking up in bed with Sparrow sometime too damn early the next morning.

Naked. The unmistakable evidence of what they’d done the night before congealing into an itchy crust on Han’s bare skin. Evidence that suggested they’d made a damn good time of it.

OK, Han could deal with this. And he could definitely use a co-pilot while Chewie was away. He could teach him what he needed to learn and pay him in rum. As long as he remembered to call Sparrow “Captain,” he figured everything would be juuuust fine.

Yeah, sure. Sure it would. Famous last words.


End file.
